


credence barebone and the king of the faeries

by saltpans



Series: credence barebone and the king of the faeries [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Autumn court, Courtship, Depression, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Semi-Public Sex, Summer Court, The Erlking - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:51:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9897716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltpans/pseuds/saltpans
Summary: The trouble starts at the tailor's, which is strange to even think, let alone experience.  A year ago Credence Barebone was happy to have clothes that had holes in just the elbows and knees.  Now he doesn't even twitch when Samson, the tailor's excitable apprentice, sticks him with a pin on accident.It's not the strangest thing that's happened to Credence this year, but it's close."So," Samson says cheerfully, pricking Credence again as he pins up some loose fabric around Credence's shoulders, "are you going to the Ball?"Credence blinks.  "I—the Ball?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Part two of the fae 'verse! 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy. I'm gonna come back and put a better note up here when I'm not so tired, BUT. Enjoy! It's not necessary to read the first part of this series first. I tried to make sure that the major plot points were explained. 
> 
> Enjoy!

credence barebone and the king of the faeries  

 

I.

The trouble starts at the tailor's, which is strange to even think _,_ let alone experience.  A year ago Credence Barebone was happy to have clothes that had holes in just the elbows and knees.  Now he doesn't even twitch when Samson, the tailor's excitable apprentice, sticks him with a pin on accident.   

It's not the strangest thing that's happened to Credence this year, but it's close.   

"So," Samson says cheerfully, pricking Credence again as he pins up some loose fabric around Credence's shoulders, "are you going to the Ball?"  

Credence blinks.  "I—the Ball?"  He hasn't heard of a ball.  They get the New York Ghost at the house only occasionally, whenever the owl can be bribed with treats or Credence remembers to pick one up out of the basket at Goody Howe's.   

Graves doesn't care much about the news these days.  Now that he's not part of MACUSA, he's happily unbothered by the things happening in the rest of the Wizarding world.  If it happens outside of the borders of the grounds, Graves doesn't worry about it.  

But Credence has always liked reading the news.  He likes to know what's going on, what people think about, what they care about.  Graves says (fondly, of course) that Credence is a shameless gossip, but Credence just likes... being informed.   

And the Wizarding world is so _new_ to him, still.  There's so much Credence hasn't learned.  He feels like he's starving for it, for everything this new world can offer him, can teach him, and he hasn't yet had enough to eat.   

So Credence blinks at Samson and says, "What's the Ball?" 

"The Winter Ball?"  Samson says, like Credence should know what he means.  

Credence looks at Samson, patiently.  Samson isn't afraid of him.  He's the new apprentice of Madame Barbin, Graves' tailor, and he only just graduated from Ilvermorny.  He wasn't in New York last winter, while Credence was... different.  While Grindelwald was here.  Samson doesn't know what Credence has done, what he can do.   

( _If he did,_ Credence thinks, in a dry voice that sounds like Graves, _he might be more careful with those pins._ )  

Samson colors.  "I keep forgetting you're new to all of this," he says.  "The Winter Ball is the _best._ It's the only ball MACUSA still puts on—we used to have dances every other month, my ma says—and _everyone_ goes.  Even foreign wizards come.  The English still have their Yule Ball, I think, but even the Minister of Magic comes here."  

"So it's just a dance?" 

" _Just_ a dance?"  Samson says, scandalized.  "The Winter Ball's not _just_ anything.  It's an _event._ It's the best part of being a sixth year—you get to stay at Ilvermorny over the holiday break for the Ball, meet all the witches and wizards who come.  Everybody who's anybody goes.  It's how I got this job.  I met Madame Barbin at the punch table and mended a tear in her dress robes."  

"The Ball is at Ilvermorny?"  Credence asks, trying to sound only politely interested and not like he's hungry for any mention of the school.  He's learned plenty about Ilvermorny from Tina and Graves both—Tina more than Graves, who seems determined to act as though his life didn't start until after that last fight with Grindelwald, but Credence hasn't gone to see the school, not yet.  

Apparently, the teachers at Ilvermorny don't really want an Obscurial and a renegade wizard dropping by and disrupting classes.   

Credence can't really blame them, but it stings, a little.  He's not—well, he _is_ dangerous, but Credence has much better control over himself than he used to, and he'd go with Graves.  Graves can keep Credence from hurting anyone.   

"Ilvermorny's the only pace MACUSA's got that's big enough to hold everyone," Samson explains.  "They've got their fancy skyscraper in Manhattan, but that's for business.  Ilvermorny's the best place for a _party."_  

"I don't know if we're going," Credence admits.  "I—" He stops himself.  MACUSA is keeping the details of Graves and Credence—Grindelwald, the strange magic they used against him, the way Graves' house acts as though it's a separate being from the rest of the world—very quiet.  Graves is still fighting with the courts to keep Credence out of MACUSA's grasp.   

"We don’t go out much," Credence says.  He's not nearly as good at talking around an issue as Tina's sister Queenie is, but he's better than Graves.   

"I've heard," Samson says, dropping his voice to a sympathetic whisper.  "What's it like?  Living with Mr. Graves, I mean?  We've all heard the stories." Samson gives an affected shiver.  "They still talk about him in the Wampus common room.  Is he as fierce and unsmiling as they say?" 

Yesterday morning, Credence saw Graves drop a piece of toast on the floor, swear at it, and then pick it up and eat it anyway.   

"No," he says, smiling.  "He's not."  

"Well, maybe you can _convince_ him to take you to the Ball this year," Samson says, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.   

Credence flushes, face burning at the implication.   

"Samson!"  Madame Barbin barks, stalking into the room with Graves ambling at her heels, hands in his pockets.  Madame Barbin is a little woman with flashing grey eyes and a warm, syrupy Louisiana accent.  She reminds Credence of President Picquery, a little, though he's seen what President Picquery can do and would rather take Madame Barbin in a fight.  "Are you done tormenting the boy?" 

It's Samson's turn to flush, caught out.  He darts a nervous look at Graves, who stares back, stone-faced, and only winks at Credence when Samson looks away.   

"Yes, ma'am," Samson mumbles.   

Madame Barbin snorts.  "Good," she huffs.  "Young man, we've got those robes you ordered last time you were here ready for you.  If you'd like to try them on...?" 

Credence nods, mostly to spare Samson any more of a scolding. He wasn't tormenting Credence, just—teasing.  Credence isn't used to _teasing,_ but he doesn't mind it.  He likes that Samson isn't afraid of him.  The list of people who see him as just Credence, not the Obscurial, is very short.   

"This way, then," Barbin says, shooting Samson a warning glare.  "We will have your suit ready by the end of the week."  

Credence falls into step beside Graves, close enough that their elbows brush.  Credence is just a little taller than Graves, but he always feels, because of the way Graves carries himself, that Graves is the taller.    

Madame Barbin guides them to a spacious dressing room.  Credence has been here before—Graves has brought him several times since last March, when Credence was given permission to go out into the Wizarding world.  

(Credence doesn't see the point of coming here and buying so many _clothes_ —there are plenty of perfectly fine clothes at the house.  Credence doesn't care that they're out of fashion or that some of them smell like mothballs.  Credence knows more than just a fistful of spells, now.  He's pretty sure he can mend any rips or tears and banish the smell of mothballs on his own. 

This—buying Credence things—makes Graves happy, though, so Credence doesn't put up more than a mild fight every time they come here.) 

"Let me know if something doesn't fit," Madame Barbin says, and leaves them.  

There's a rack of clothes on each side of Credence and a floor-to-ceiling mirror in front of him.   

"Madame Barbin doesn't care much for propriety, it seems," Graves says, dry.  

"There's no point in two dressing rooms if you're just going to sneak in here anyway," Credence points out.   

He catches Graves' delighted grin in the mirror, and tucks the memory of it away.   

One of the racks is for him, full of crisp shirts and soft robes, ties and coats and pants.  Credence is sure that they all fit, just as he's sure he's going to reject half of them out of hand—really, he doesn't need this many _things_ —and the other rack is for Graves.   

Credence goes for the robes first.   

"We don't usually wear robes, these days," Graves explains, undoing the buttons of his shirt.  "But formal events sometimes require them, and it's always good to be prepared."  

"Are we going to many formal events?"  Credence asks, running his thumb over one of the robes.  It's a deep, dark blue, almost black, and the sleeves and collar are embroidered with fine silver thread.   

Out of the corner of his eye, Credence watches Graves shrug out of his shirt.   

He's got almost as many scars as Credence does.  War wounds, battle scars, from fighting, from dueling, from falling out of trees.  There's a tangled tattoo high on Graves' right shoulder that always makes heat stir in Credence's belly.   

Credence flushes and turns away.  He grabs the blue robes, unseeing, and pulls them on.  The robes are comfortable enough, but Credence isn't sure he likes the way he looks in them.   

The Credence Barebone reflected in the mirror is unrecognizable.  A little under a year ago, Credence was a scrap of shadow cowering underneath a bridge, trying to cling to life.  Before that he'd been pale and thin and miserable.   

He's not nearly as pale now, and helping Newt care for his creatures and conduct his research has given Credence some strength in his shoulders, his arms.  His hair is long enough to curl a little, and his eyes— 

Credence looks away.   

 _If Ma saw me in the street, she wouldn't know me,_ Credence thinks.  He doesn't know how that makes him feel.   

Mary Lou adopted Credence when he was six.  She changed everything about him, even his name.  In his head, Credence knows that he was someone else before he was Credence, the adopted, sinful son of _that Barebone woman,_ but he doesn't know who that other boy could have been.   

He doesn't really know who he is now, either, but he doesn't think he's the kind of person who looks good in robes.   

Credence peels the blue robes off, stepping out of his pants and shirt as well.  He doesn’t stop to look at Graves, though it is tempting—everything about Graves is tempting, like he was put on earth to drive Credence to distraction—but instead tugs on another set of robes, these ones black, decorated sparingly with red.   

 _I like these a little better,_ Credence thinks, studying himself.  The cut of the robes is less... childish, maybe.  He likes the red, too.  Credence steps a little closer to the mirror, peering at himself.   

The embroidery, Credence realizes, is in the shape of leaves.   

"Barbin," Graves says, behind Credence, and Credence startles.   

Graves has moved a bit closer, not quite close enough to touch but close enough to feel, to smell.  He smells like wood smoke, like clean wind, like the sound leaves make as they crackle underfoot. 

Credence meets Graves' eyes in the mirror.  Graves is smiling, the good side of his mouth turned up.  The scar he got fighting Grindelwald last February has faded, some, from raw and red to white, but it still crosses both of his lips, mars his chin. 

When Grindelwald used to heal Credence after his ma— _after,_ he vanished the wounds with a wave of his hand.  It had been the work of seconds.  Effortless.  _Magic,_ and Credence had clung to the memory of it for days after.  But nothing anyone has tried has healed the scar on Graves' face.   

Graves doesn’t seem to mind it.  Credence doesn't, either.  At first he'd been worried that touching or kissing the scar hurt Graves, but Graves has done plenty of other things with his mouth to convince Credence that it doesn't hurt.   

Credence just—feels bad.  Guilty.  Graves got that scar—and half a dozen others—fighting to keep Grindelwald away from Credence, and Credence hadn't been able to protect him.  Newt says that Credence is the most powerful Obscurial he's ever heard of, and Credence hadn't been able to protect Graves. 

Graves sees where Credence is looking, and his smile turns rueful.   

"Did... did Madame Barbin do this on purpose?"  Credence asks, half-invitation and half to drive Graves' ruefulness away.  "The leaves?"  

"Absolutely," Graves says.  "Madame Barbin always keeps an ear out for the latest gossip.  I expect this is how she tells me that she approves."  

"That she approves of me, or... the rest of it?"  Credence asks.  

Graves cocks his head, thoughtful.  "That she approves of _you,_ I think.  Not many people know about the rest of it."  

Not many people know what Graves and Credence did, what they are doing.  Credence barely understands it himself— _the Autumn Court_ means as little to him as _MASUSA._ It's all just words, things he's still new to.  Maybe the idea of faeries is strange to wizards, but the idea of wizards is strange to Credence, so to him it's all the same.  Wands and magic and the bedtime stories he wasn't ever allowed to read, but snuck out of the library anyway.   

But to the rest of the Wizarding world, Graves and Credence are _different._  

Tina's helped Credence go over the laws.  MACUSA is the governing body of American wizards only—its President and its Congress aren't allowed to sentence foreign wizards to death.   

This is how Graves is saving Credence's life.  By claiming to be separate from MACUSA, a law unto themselves.  By claiming to be something a little more than human.   

"They say all witches and wizards came from—others," Tina had explained.  "That before No-Majs grew in numbers, _we_ ruled the world, and kept it separated into Courts." 

"You're talking about fairytales," Credence had said.   

Tina had smiled.  "I am," she'd allowed.  "I'm talking about history, too."  

Credence can believe that Graves is a little more than human.  _The old blood,_ Graves calls it.  There's a light in Graves' dark eyes, sometimes, that seems as far away and as ancient as a star.   

Credence doesn't think that he's the same as Graves—he can't be, he's an Obscurial, he's not the same as anybody—but Graves has convinced MACUSA to leave Credence alone, for now at least.   

Credence has never set foot outside of New York, but he's considered a foreign wizard.   

"Well," Credence says, examining the crimson needlework, "I'm glad she approves?"  Credence likes knowing that other people know about him and Graves.  He'd worried, at first, that people would be—would be like his mother.  That they, after they learned about the nature of Graves and Credence's relationship, would be angry and hateful.   

Two men or two women together, Graves had explained once, wasn't especially _common_ among wizards, but it wasn't terribly unusual either, and it wasn't a crime.  All of Wizarding New York had known about Graves' own preferences for years; he's always taken men as his lovers, and is fierce enough with his jinxes that those who don't approve stay quiet.   

Graves hums, stepping closer.  Credence lets him, amused.  There's a bright, mischievous gleam in Graves' eyes.  He's left his shirt undone at the wrists and the throat, likely on purpose.  There's a faint purple bruise riding high on one of Graves' collarbones.  Credence flushes at the sight of it.   

"You're teasing me," Credence murmurs, looking away.   

Graves brushes Credence's elbow, eyes wrinkled, affectionate.  "A little," he admits, his voice going low and lovely.   

Credence decides that he's in the mood to be teased, and bares his neck, an invitation.  Graves skims the rough pad of his thumb over the column of Credence's throat.  Sparks flare and settle low in Credence's belly.   

He bites his lip.   

Graves rumbles.  Credence feels it in his chest, his fingertips.  He wants to touch, but doesn't know where to put his hands.   

Graves traces the line of Credence's throat, his shoulders, back up to brush the shell of Credence's ear.  His touches are gentle and Credence wishes they weren't, wishes they were fire, were lightning, wishing the sensation of Graves' skin matches the feeling it raises in Credence's ribcage.  

He's _hungry._  

Graves rumbles again, a laugh ghosting against the back of Credence's neck, and nudges Credence forward.  Credence finds something to do with his hands—he throws them out, braces himself against the mirror, pushing back against Graves' chest.   

But Graves is impossible, immovable.  He folds himself against Credence's back, warm, and Credence can feel that he's hard.   

Credence and Graves have been together for months now.  They've slept together—Credence can't call it _fucking_ without wanting to throw himself into the nearest fireplace—everywhere, all over the city, their house, before their trees.  But this, the warmth of Graves, his cock hard against Credence's thigh, never fails to make Credence burn with embarrassment, with need, with _hunger_ — 

 _"_ Steady now," Graves murmurs, nipping at Credence's ear.   

Credence growls at him.   

Graves laughs, his hands sliding down Credence's body, smoothing out the wrinkles in his robes.  Credence shifts, trying to get those hands where he wants them, and Graves' answering rumble is deeper, darker.   

Credence tilts his head back so he can catch Graves' eyes in the mirror.  Graves' eyes are black with want.   His hands skim over the folds of the robes, brushing Credence's ribs, his hips, lower.  Credence bits his lip so hard he can almost taste blood.   

Graves hesitates, his eyes glittering, and presses a kiss that could almost be called sweet to the soft skin behind Credence's ear.   

Credence relaxes.   

And Graves, damn him, reaches down and grips Credence's cock through his robes.  Credence jerks, sacrificing his stance against the mirror to clap a hand over his mouth, catching his cry.  Graves growls, pleased with himself, and squeezes Credence carefully.  

Credence can't stop his hips from jerking up into Graves' grip.  He doesn't want to.  He wants—he wants— 

Graves nips him again, playful, and steps away.  Graves drags a hand through his hair, readjusts his robes.  If it weren't for the dark of his eyes he'd look almost _bored._  

Credence glares at him.   

Graves grins.  "We don't have all day," he says, nodding at the rest of the rack of clothes.  "Not if you want to stop at Bartleby's, too."  

That's what this is.  A _game._ Credence narrows his eyes.  Graves thinks he can win, this time.  That Credence will give into his lust and demand to be taken back home, so Graves can go back to pretending to be a hermit with only Credence for company.  

Credence was raised by a woman who taught him that even looking at his cock would make him go blind.  Graves _vastly_ underestimates Credence's experiences with ignoring lust.   

Credence straightens his own robes, glaring.   

"Of course," he says, smiling at Graves with all his teeth.  "I don't want to keep anyone waiting."  

Graves throws back his head and laughs.   

 

II.

They're in bed when Credence brings up the Winter Ball.  One of them ought to move, to get up and get a wet washcloth or a wand to clean up the mess they've made.  Sweat and spend are cooling on Credence's belly, his thighs, the sheets, and if they leave it much longer they'll be sticky.  

Graves doesn't mind, because once he's in bed for the evening he goes all loose-limbed and lazy, but Credence hates feeling like he needs a bath, and if he waits much longer he _will_ need one, and taking a bath at this hour is just an invitation for Graves to get him filthy again.   

"What," Credence murmurs, tracing one of Graves' scars with a fingernail, "is the Winter Ball?" 

Graves, lying on his stomach with one arm thrown over Credence's chest and the other tucked underneath himself, hums thoughtfully into his pillow.  They're legs are tangled together.  Credence moves from the scar on Graves' shoulder to his hair.  It's longer than it was when Grindelwald stole Graves' face, long enough to stick up in spikes where Credence cards through it.  Graves has more silver at his temples than he did when Credence first met him, and Credence likes to run his thumb over the streaks, following the curves of Graves' skull.   

"It's a dance," he says, "and a nightmare to coordinate the security for.  It's at Ilvermorny. "   

"Oh," Credence murmurs.  He tries to will his legs to move, his hand to reach for the willow wand that's on the nightstand next to the bed, but Graves' arm is a comfortable weight across his chest and the warmth of him is relaxing, comforting.  Credence feels like he could fall asleep like this, like a ship rocked by the waves of Graves' breathing, the tide of his pulse.   

"I wasn't going to go," Graves says.  "Seraphina wants me there for people to gawk at, I think.  That or she's worried about Grindelwald's fanatics making an appearance, and wants to use me as bait.  I was going to decline just to piss her off, but if you want to go, we can."  

"You'd take me with you?"  Credence asks, surprised and delighted.   

Graves rolls over, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at Credence.  Credence moves from his hair to his chin, tracing the scar as it climbs up Graves' face.  "Of course I would," he says.  "Everyone will stare at you instead of me, and I'll get away with glowering in a corner."   

Credence laughs.  "I'd—I'd like to go, if you want to," he says.  "I've—it sounds like it'll be interesting.  I want to see Ilvermorny."  

"Then I'll send an owl in the morning," Graves says, leaning down to press a gentle kiss against the corner of Credence's mouth, sweetly, like he didn't have his cock buried inside Credence ten minutes ago, like Credence isn't carrying the marks of Graves' teeth on his collarbone.   

Credence lets him, and shifts his hips so that he and Graves are slotted together. The friction is good, so good that Credence moans, rolling his hips experimentally.   

Graves drops his head down to mouth at Credence's throat, groaning.  "I'm not twenty-five anymore," he says, breath hot.  

Credence rolls his eyes.  "You'll figure something out," he says, and Graves' laugh deepens into a growl when Credence rolls his hips up, sharply, and slides their cocks together.  

Credence doesn't make it out of bed until morning.   

 

III. 

"I've never been one for balls and dances, really,” Newt says, when Credence asks him what to expect several days later.  They're both up to their elbows in creek mud, searching for signs of a Horned Serpent.  "It drove my poor mother to despair.  I've never been invited to MACUSA's Winter Ball before."  

Credence sighs.   

"What did Mr. Graves say, when you asked him what the Ball was like?"  Newt asks, smiling a bit.  He's shed his coat and waistcoat and pushed his sleeves up high.  Out in the rest of the world, it's December and winter is creeping in, thick with cold and frost.  But here the trees are still red and gold and orange, the air mild.  Credence thinks that one day he might get tired of an endless autumn, but so far he hasn't.  He can feel magic whispering between the trees, winding through the grounds.   

"He says it's not that bad. But he's," and Credence waves a hand, gesturing at the grounds and the oak trees and the faint outline of the house, settled on its hill.   

Newt grins.  "Yes, he is a bit.  Aha!"  Newt drops to his knees, splashing mud everywhere, and brings his face close to the ground.  "Here, do you see?" 

Credence crouches down beside him, trying to find tracks in the mud.  Horned Serpents are very careful when they move into a new territory.  This one is a female, and even more cautious, according to Newt.  Horned Serpents prefer sneaking about to challenging each other for new rivers to wallow in.  

But Credence sees faint patterns scraped into the mud, like something with scales passed through it, and Newt grins, points.  

There, stuck in the mud, is a single blue scale.  Newt pries it loose and lets Credence see.  The scale is no bigger than Credence's thumbnail and so blue it almost hurts to look at it.   

"Only the scales around the base of the horn are loose enough to flake off," Newt explains.  "Our Horned Serpent is young, and curious.  Likely she was nosing her way down the stream and lost the scale in the bank.  Where's the biggest stream on the grounds?"  

"Um," Credence says, thinking.  Since last February creeks and streams have unfolded across the grounds seemingly overnight.  When Credence first came here, he spent all of his time wandering around between the trees and drifting through the sky, and there hadn't been any creeks.  But Graves' woods have grown all kinds of things.  Hills and hollows, a cave, precise, perfect rings of flowers and mushrooms and stately oak trees.  A creek isn't all that surprising.   

"There's a new stream in the western half," Credence says, slowly.  "Bigger than this one." 

"Lead the way, then."  Newt springs up out of the mud, banishing the worst of it with a flick of his wand.  Credence hasn't gotten the hang of wordless magic, yet.  Or cleaning spells.  Graves thinks that Credence has too much raw power to ever be great at things like Charms and Transfiguration, which demand focus and precision, but Credence _does_ try.   

Credence does as he's asked, taking Newt through the trees.  Here and there are signs of the Horned Serpent's journey; bark scraped off of trees, leaves flattened and crushed.  Newt and Credence take turns pointing them out.  This, at least, Credence is good at.  Spellwork is hard, but he's always been observant.  

These trees are newer.  Grindelwald came here in late February and turned half the forest to ash.  The trees came back fast enough, healed by whatever great well of magic lived underneath the ground, tied to Graves, but some of them are still green with new growth, or scarred up where Grindelwald touched them as he passed.   

High above them, some bird cries out, a sad, swooping sound.   

Newt stills.  He presses a finger to his lips and cocks his head to the side.  Credence quiets too, listening hard.  

The bird cries again, and Credence can see it now, a strange greenish grey thing, perched high up on one of the oak trees.   

"An augurey," Newt says softly.  "The North American variant.  Smaller than ours back in England, but more beautiful, don't you think?"   

Credence hasn't ever seen an augurey before, but he nods anyway.  It _is_ beautiful, if a bit mournful and tattered.   

"Are they—are they magical?"  

Newt nods.  "Yes, in their way.  Many wizards think that the cry of an augurey is a portent of death, though they really are just only announcing that it's about to rain."  

Credence smiles, looking up at the strange bird.  The sun is bright and the sky is a clear, hard blue; there's not a cloud in sight.  But the augurey cries again and swoops off its branch, its green-grey feathers flashing in the sun for a second before it's gone.  

"Why did it come here?"  Credence asks.  "I've never seen one before."  

"For the same reason as the owls, I'd expect," Newt says.  "The Horned Serpent, too.  They can sense the magic moving through this place." 

"Really?" 

"Yes," Newt says.  "I only have anecdotal evidence, of course—the Ministry, my Ministry, is not keen on funding an in-depth study—but I've found similar patterns all over the world.  Hogwarts, for example, has a great many creatures living in its forests that aren't found together anywhere else in Britain.  The magic of the place draws them in."  

The owls had come to the woods months ago.  A whole _parliament_ of them, which had delighted Credence and baffled Graves.  Owls of all shapes and sizes, colors and shades.  Credence had spent a happy few weeks in June learning the names of them all.  Barn owls and eagle owls, Great Horned and screech.  Now every night was full of the soft sounds they made, and the occasional shadow of one of them soaring by overhead.   

"Will other creatures show up?" 

"I would expect so," Newt says, grinning.  "This kind of forest is not ideal for some of North America's more interesting creatures, but a fair number should turn up."  

Credence smiles at the thought.  He likes Newt's creatures.  Newt isn't here very often—he works for MACUSA now, and goes all over the country after American magical creatures, but when he is he always offers to take Credence out to see some beast or other, or invites Credence to spend time in his case.  

Credence has never had any pets.  Chastity used to feed the alley cats, but none of them had ever dared to bring an animal into the church where Ma could see.     

Graves has an especially temperamental old owl that despises Credence and lives in the rafters above the kitchens, emerging only to carry letters and pick bits of toast off Graves' plate at breakfast, and there's a whole room full of plants that wave at Credence as he walks by, but those are Graves' too, and not really pets.   

Newt's creatures aren't really pets either, but Credence likes the idea of them, of having something as loyal as the Swooping Evil or as clever as the Niffler nearby all the time.   

He likes this, too.  Newt's not a teacher so much as he's a guide, showing Credence how to read the signs of animals passing in the woods, how to listen for the rustling of birds and the prowling of foxes.  Credence likes the work.  He likes the sense of discovery he gets when he and Newt find something.   

"We're pretty close," Credence says, shading his eyes against the sun.  He listened for the sound of running water, and turned towards it.  "Here."  

The woods are curled around this particular stream protectively, the branches overhead thick and tangled.  Sunlight filters down in patches, flashing off the surface of the water, and reeds are already crowding the edges, filling the air with tiny floating seeds.   

"She'll be here, if she's anywhere," Newt says softly, and crouches down among the reeds.  Credence follows suit, searching the surface of the water.  Credence spots little fish darting around the reeds, a fat frog settled on a rock like a king, dragonflies of a hundred colors, but no Horned Serpent.   

"There," Newt murmurs.  "Where the water is widest, and deepest."  

He doesn't point, but Credence doesn't need him to.  There's a bend in the stream before it snakes into the deepest part of the woods, a patch of open water.  Credence watches it for several minutes, breathing shallowly, and then he sees the eyes.   

Flat yellow eyes, slitted like a cat's, there for a second and gone again.   

"Did she leave?"  Credence whispers.   

"No," says Newt.  "Horned Serpents are not particularly shy, but they are... selective, about the company they keep.  A trait they share with Runespoors.  It might be best to leave her something to eat, and then try again in a week or so."  

Credence nods, already making plans to come back before it rains, and he and Newt back up out of the reeds and leave the Horned Serpent to her creek bend.   

"You don't have Horned Serpents, at Hogwarts?"   

Newt shakes his head.  "None," he says.  "Runespoors aplenty—the Slytherins keep smuggling them in, you see—and a few ashwinders, but northern Scotland is not a place for snakes, even with Hogwarts' magic."   

"Oh," Credence says.  He wants to see Hogwarts almost as much as he wants to see Ilvermorny. Not even Graves has been there—apparently the British guard it fiercely, and only brings foreign wizards in by invitation.  But Newt talks about it all the time, about the Forbidden Forest, teeming with creatures, about the lake and its merfolk, about the castle itself, the classrooms, the library.  

A pang of hunger hits Credence between the ribs.   

Newt tilts his head to the side, considering.  "A few of Hogwarts' professors are going to be at the Winter Ball," he says.  "And Tina has informed me that I will _not_ be wiggling my way out of attending, so.  If you'd like, I can introduce you?"  

Credence startles a bit.  "Why would they—I mean," he corrects, flushing at his rudeness, "would they want to meet me?  I'm not—I'm not anybody, really."   

Newt huffs.  "You and Mr. Graves will be something of a main event.  You're an Obscurial in control of his power, and Mr. Graves is, for all intents and purposes, a faerie king."  

"He hates it when people call him that," Credence says absently, trying to decide what he feels.  The idea of a bunch of wizards and witches he doesn't know asking him questions, circling him like wolves, is—it's not comfortable.  It's not that Credence is _afraid_ of people—Credence is very aware, all the time, of how dangerous he is—it's that he doesn't know what they _want_ from him, and when Credence doesn't know what people want from him he ends up in some kind of trouble.   

On the other hand, Credence is going to _Ilvermorny._ He's going to get to see the place, see this part of the world he's been kept away from.   

Excitement and dread war in his gut.     

"I'd like," Credence says slowly, "to meet your professors.  if they—if they want to meet me." 

"Wonderful," Newt says.  "Professor Dippet—Headmaster Dippet, now, I think—and Professor Dumbledore will both be coming.  Headmaster Dippet is a lovely man, and Dumbledore is—well.  A very, very good one.  Monstrously clever, and very kind."  

Newt seems to prefer kindness over just about everything else.  He's always watching for it.  That's why he and Tina are so smitten with each other—Tina's the kindest person Credence has ever met.   

(Credence supposes that it's lucky, too, that Newt once caught Graves tending to the old owl after it had run into some trouble with a pair of ravens.  Credence is pretty sure that Newt wouldn't hesitate, if he thought Graves was not kind enough for Credence.)   

"I'd like to meet him," Credence says.  "Do you—do you have any advice?  For how to act at the Ball?" 

"Merlin's beard, no," Newt says cheerfully.  "I plan on throwing Tina in front of whoever tries to talk to me." 

"And if that doesn't work?"   

"Firewhisky," says Newt, a bright gleam in his eyes, and Credence can't help but laugh.   

They part ways once they leave the woods and emerge on the sprawling, unkempt lawn.  There's less lawn than there used to be—the woods keep inching closer to the house, Graves will likely have to talk with them soon—and there's a hill, now, rising up out of the grass with the house resting atop it like a king on a throne.   

Newt waves goodbye, promises to return in a few days to see if any other creatures have decided to make the wood their home, and heads for a trail that unfolds itself from the dense trees.  He's heading for the edge of the grounds, to Apparate back to New York and to Tina.   

Credence watches him go, the trees closing behind Newt, standing rank and file, and squints up at the sky.  Dark grey clouds are rolling in on the horizon, bringing with them a blanket of fog and mist.  Someone in the woods the augurey sings, high and warbling.  

Credence smiles.  He feels a bit better about the whole problem of the Winter Ball, and turns to go inside.  Dinner should be ready soon, and there's a book Credence wants to finish, and maybe some teasing to be done, to remind Graves that he's not the only one who be playful and cruel in the same breath.   

Credence is, as he steps into the house and closes the door behind him, utterly content.  

 

 IV.

The feeling of contentment lasts all the way up to the day of the Winter Ball.  Credence wakes as he usually does, to Graves slipping out from underneath the covers before the sun has cleared the oak trees.  Credence rolls over into the warm spot Graves leaves behind and sleeps for another fistful of hours, because there's no one around to tell him not too.  

When he wakes up the second time, wakes up properly, he sees that Graves has already laid out their dress robes.  

Nervousness twists in Credence's stomach.  Why did he want to do this?  To go to a place he's not welcome and be stared at like he's some kind of wild animal in a zoo?   

Credence's unease doesn't fade as he pads down the hall, tugging one of Graves' too-big shirts around his shoulders.   

Graves' shirt is old and warm and smells like Graves, so by the time Credence makes it to the kitchen he's still nervous but he's hiding it better.  Graves has his nose buried in a book, a pair of glasses resting up in his untidy hair, and he's holding up a piece of buttered toast like he means to take a bite but has forgotten that it's there.  

Something in Credence's chest loosens.  "You know glasses are for reading, right?"   

Graves looks up, amused.  "I know," he says.  "One day I'll even manage to wear them properly, but I don't think I'm ready to surrender to old age just yet."  

"You're not old," Credence says, and, because Graves isn't going to eat it, plucks the toast out of his hand and helps himself.    

Graves insists that coffee tastes better when it's made by hand, not magic, but Credence doesn't care—he gets a little jolt of happiness pulling out his wand and sending cups and coffee grounds and water into the air, a little dance that ends with a muttered Warming Charm and a steaming mug in his hands.   

When he turns back around, Graves has his nose back in his book, but he's smiling, like he can't help himself, like he's so happy he can't stop.  It makes something ache beneath Credence's breastbone.  A good ache.  A clean one, like Credence has just run halfway through the woods or climbed to the top of the house to watch the stars.   

"So," Graves says, after Credence has eaten a few more bites of toast and made eggs for them both, "it's the Winter Solstice."  

Credence adds a sprinkle of pepper to his own eggs—Graves likes them plain, which Credence thinks is the worst thing about him—and hands Graves a plate.  "Okay?"  Credence has heard of the Winter Solstice, vaguely.  His Ma said that it was a holiday for witches.  For dancing naked in the woods and kidnapping good God-fearing children.  

"The look on your face says you've heard of it," Graves says, amused.   

Credence shrugs.  "My ma said it was a night when wicked men light fires in the woods and wicked women had congress with wild beasts," he mutters.  "I don't think that's true?" 

Graves barks a laugh.  "Not quite," he says.  "It's—a strange holiday.  Most wizards pretend they don't celebrate it anymore.  But it's—” Graves stops, trying to find the right words.  He has a hard time telling Credence these things.  Not because he wants to keep secrets from Credence, but because Graves has always known these things instinctively—he was never really taught them, and so he doesn't know how to teach others.   

"Can you feel it?"  Graves finally asks.   

Frowning a little, Credence closes his eyes.  The sense of magic—wild, singing magic, sunk deep into the roots outside, into the foundations of the house, into Graves and Credence both—is there like it always is, humming quietly just outside of Credence's awareness.   

He listens intently, and imagines himself unraveling.  Imagines smoke and fire and a night bright with stars, and then he _does_ feel it.   

Credence opens his eyes, and finds that he's half shadow.  Credence reels himself back together, willing the darkness away, and says, "What's _happening?"_  

The magic he'd felt, familiar now after months of calling Graves' house _home,_ had been almost overwhelming.  Graves usually referred to the magic sunk into their house as a river or a song; today it felt like an ocean, like a mad howl.  Credence can feel it now, thundering in his chest.  He wants to—to dance, to hunt, to fight, to fuck, to sing, and sing, and— 

"Easy now," Graves says, and Credence realizes that he's unraveling again.   

 _Control,_ Credence scolds himself, and manages to hold himself together.   

Graves smiles, crooked now.  "The Winter and Summer Solstices are... different, for magical folk," he explains.  "It's been a thousand years since we've worshipped the stars and the forests and the rivers, but our kind has a very long memory.  We know, in our bones, that this is a night of celebration.  The Winter's Ball is MACUSA's way of allowing that celebration to happen in a place where Aurors can keep an eye on everybody.  There are places in America where we go into the woods and light fires.  In some of the older countries, people still hold the Hunt on this night."  

"What are you saying?"  Credence asks.   

"That you and I will probably feel it—the magic, the, the _hunger_ —more than everyone else, and we should be careful." 

"We're always careful," Credence points out, because they _are._ Wild magic clings to Graves like a coat, these days.  Credence doubts that he has the same effect, but people are always more than a little wary in his presence.   

Graves raises an eyebrow.  He's being serious, for once.  Usually Graves is gently teasing or wry and witty.  Credence swallows, nervous again, and nods.  "Alright," he says.  "I'll be—I'll be careful.  It'll be better once we're not _here,_ right?"   

Credence's magic is the strongest here.  He thinks Graves' is too.  This is their home.  They've spilled blood here.  Credence might not know a lot about wizards, and he knows even less about the fair folk, but he _does_ know that blood is a powerful, powerful magic.   

"On any other day, it would be," Graves says.  "But Ilvermorny is a court of its own, and its founders put as much blood in their wards as I did." 

"I promise not to shift and startle anyone," Credence promises.   

Graves' eyes glitter, amused again.  "If they're stupid enough to provoke you, you can do whatever the hell you want, Credence."  

Warm, Credence smiles into his coffee cup.  "Finish your eggs," he says.  "When are we leaving?" 

 

V. 

Ilvermorny is not at all what Credence expects it to be.   From the way everyone talks about it, he expects something out of a storybook or a fairytale.  A castle, a tower, even a skyscraper like Woolworth.  He expects something impressive.   

What he finds, as Graves Apparates them to a footpath on the side of a mountain, is a cottage. A nice cottage, Credence is sure—it's small but comfortable-looking,   

Credence blinks.  "This is—this is Ilvermorny?" 

Graves laughs.  "The front door, yes."  Graves knocks on the wooden door, three sharp raps, and it swings inward of its own accord.  Graves stands aside, ushering Credence in, and, doubtful, Credence crosses the threshold.   

He gasps.   

The cottage, it turns out, is not a cottage at all.  It's a doorway, stone and wrought iron, opening up onto a courtyard of grass.  Buildings crowd the edges like neighbors jostling each other at the market.  There _is_ a castle, a stately stone thing that sits perched a little higher than the others, but there are other buildings, too.  A few cottages, a pair of tall red buildings with sloping, peaked roofs.  A building with a great golden dome, and one made entirely of intricately woven wood, and one made of grass.  There are more than a dozen buildings, and all of them are connected by the courtyard and warren of hallways.   

Catching sight of Credence's expression, Graves laughs.  "Ilvermorny started as that cottage we walked through," he explains.  "And over the years it's grown.  As America grew, so too did its witches and wizards, and Ilvermorny was home to all of them."  

That explains the collection of buildings, then.  Credence can only stare at them, struck with wonder.   

Graves grins.  "Come one," he says.  "The party's this way."  

He leads Credence into the castle, laughing softly as Credence cranes his neck to take it all in, and follows the sound of laughter and music to a huge room that's full of people.   

There's so much to look at that Credence feels dizzy trying to take it all in.  There are witches and wizards in dress robes of every shade.  Glittering headdresses, enchanted hats, dresses and suits that wink and flash with light.  Twinkling lights are draped over every surface, and when Credence looks closer he sees that the lights are actually tine, delicate creatures with gossamer wings and little faces.   

Paintings, pictures, and long woven tapestries move on the walls, their occupants flitting between frames, calling out to the crowd.  Tables piled high with food and drink attract dense knots of partygoers.  There's a dragon statue spreading its wings impressively for onlookers, and music filters down from the high, soaring ceiling.   

Credence reaches out and grabs Graves' elbow before he stops to think about it.   

Credence has lived in New York all his life.  He's not a stranger to crowds—he's not impressed by the size of the room, or the number of people in it, but— 

 _The magic,_ he thinks.  _There's so much magic._ Credence can feel it crackling against his skin, warm and merry.   

Graves is relaxed about his use of magic.  At the house things are always swimming through the air, always arranging and rearranging themselves.  Doors open and close on their own.  The grounds grow trees and hills and streams.   

But this—the music the lights, the magic dancing around the room to a beat Credence can't quite follow—is something else.  

Dazzled, Credence lets Graves guide him around the edges of the crowd.   

"There's the British Minister of Magic," Graves murmurs, nodding at a thin man in green, his face pinched as a witch lectures at him.   

"The German Magical Chancellor."  Graves indicates a portly man with straw blond hair and a weak chin, "the President of the Magical Republic of France," a surprisingly little woman in a glittering, plunging dress, "and Empress Tsubaka, of Japan," the most beautiful woman Credence has ever seen, standing next to President Picquery, whose gaze pins Credence where he stands.   

Graves grins at her, showing all of his teeth.  Credence saw what the President did to Grindelwald, and so doesn't try to draw her anger.   

"Who's everyone else?"  Credence asks.  There are hundreds of people in the great ballroom. 

"Anyone who could get an invitation," Graves says.  "Wizarding high society—the Twelve founding families, many of their cadet branches, that sort of folk—and MACUSA officials, inventors, authors.  Foreign wizards come, and all of the Ilvermorny sixth years are here too."  

Now that Graves mentions them, Credence spots young people roaming the Ball in nervous packs.  They're all wearing dark grey robes with different-colored ties.   

"What do the colors mean?"  

"It's their House," Graves says.  "Red for Wampus, white and blue for the Horned Serpent, black and green for Pukwudgie, gold for Thunderbird."  

"Is that why you wear red?"  Credence asks, plucking at the leaves stitched into his dress robes.  "Because you were in Wampus?" 

"No," says Graves, scanning the crowd.  "Red and black are my family's colors."  

Graves apparently sees who he's looking for and steers Credence across the room.  

Conversation doesn't stop as they pass, but it does falter.  Credence feels eyes watching, judging. He wants to curl up away from their stares instinctively, but Graves has his head up and his shoulders back, the angle of his jaw fierce and wild.  Credence tries to mirror him, letting Graves' confidence protect him, shield him.   

"Goldstein!"  Graves calls, and Tina's head comes up.  She's so short that she has to bounce up on the balls of her feet to see Graves and Credence.  Once she spots them, she elbows her way through the crowd, beaming.   

"Newt said you were coming," she says, a happy flush on her cheeks.  "Thanks for getting this old man out of the house, Credence."  

"I get out plenty," Graves retorts, mock-offended.  "Where is Scamander?  I half-expected to see him skulking about in a corner somewhere, shoving the candle fairies into his pockets."  

"He tried," Tina says, darkly.  "But Queenie's here, and she's using her powers for good for once and keeping Newt honest.  I _told_ him that MACUSA breeds the candle fairies for this Ball on purpose, and they're very well-treated.  It's not like we go out and catch them in the woods.  He'll probably try and start an uprising anyway, though.  He went to find a friend of his from Hogwarts."  

Graves snorts and Credence grins.   

"What about you?"  Tina asks, turning her attention to Credence.  "What do you think of Ilvermorny?" 

"It's amazing," Credence says, honestly.  "I can’t believe you went to school here."  

Tina laughs.  "You're not as amazed when you're got to spend the whole weekend scrubbing the floors in detention." 

"You were in detention?" Credence asks, surprised.  Tina's always seemed so... moral.   

"All the time," she grumbles.  "How many times did you put me in detention, Mr. Graves?" 

"Eleven," Graves says, fondly.  "She kept dueling," he explains to Credence.   

Tina shrugs, unapologetic.  Credence remembers Tina Stunning his ma, throwing curses at Grindelwald.  He probably shouldn't have been surprised.   

"You went to school together?" 

"For a year," Graves says.  "I was a seventh when Tina was a first."  

"He was the Head of Wampus," Tina adds.  "I'm surprised they let you be the Head, actually.  You were in detention as much as I was."  

"Present Calderon-Boot hoped that some responsibility would keep me out of trouble, I think," Graves says dryly.  "Unfortunately she thought the same thing about Seraphina, and instead of mellowing us out we just got more competitive."  

Graves gestures at the moving dragon statue.  "Seraphina put the enchantment on that," he says.  "No one's been able to figure out how to undo it.  It roars out the answers during exams."  

"The _President_ did that?"  Tina laughs.  "I'll have to thank her later.  I only passed History of Magic because it sang all of the names of the goblin warlords during NEWT exams."  

"What did you do?"  Credence asks.  He's still not entirely sure what the relationship between Graves and the President is.  They've spent much of the last nine months making each other miserable.   

But President Picquery came when Grindelwald attacked the house and tried to get Credence.  She dueled with him, and after she sat at Graves' side until he woke up.   

Graves half-smiles, pleased with himself.  "I figured out how to Apparate on school grounds," he says.  To demonstrate, he gently untangles himself from Credence' grip and, with a smart flourish, Apparates.  Tina blinks, startled, and Graves returns with a pop and two drinks in his hands.   

"How are you doing that?" Tina demands.   

Graves gives Credence an amber drink that smells like smoke and apples.  "I found a way through the anti-Apparation wards, he says.  "And I'm taking the secret to my grave, before you ask.  Seraphina's been trying to figure out how I did it for twenty years."  

"Speaking of the President," Tina says, and nods.   

The President is across the room, deep in conversation with the man Graves named as the German Magical Chancellor.  Her face is smooth and unworried, but she keeps throwing glances at Graves.   

"She's on her own," Graves says, drinking deeply.  

"If you help her out, she might stop yelling at you every time you're in the office," Tina points out.   

Graves mutters something under his breath and sighs.  "Save a dance for me?"  he asks.   

Credence's face burns even as his heart twists joyfully in his chest.  "I will," he promises.  

Graves presses a kiss to Credence’s temple, throws his shoulders back, finishes his drink, and _prowls_ across the dance to the President's side, power trailing behind him like a cloak.   

Credence watches him go, warm, faint hunger stirring in his belly, and looks back to find Tina watching him with something soft on her face.   

If possible, Credence blushes even harder.  "What?"  he says, defensive.   

"Nothing," Tina says.  "It's just—you're good together.  I didn't think—well.  I'm glad you're happy together."  

When Tina found out that Graves had been hiding Credence, out of loyalty or debt or some other reason Credence can't name, Tina had been _furious._ She'd mistaken Graves for Grindelwald, and had dueled with him in the woods until Credence had stepped in.  

She likes Graves.  Respects him, cares about him, wants him to be happy, but she's _protective_ of Credence.   

She's also the first person in the world who stood up for Credence against his mother.  Credence was adopted when he was six.  He's twenty-five now.  Tina was the first person to try and protect him in all the years Credence was his mother's son.   

Chastity used to try and teach him how to be good.  Modesty would warn him whenever Ma was on the warpath.  Their eldest brother, Diligence, used to take beatings for them until he went overseas to fight and never came home, but no one had ever hit Mary Lou _back._  

So, because Credence owes Tina for being the first one to hit back, and he's learned that debts are a powerful sort of magic, says, "Thanks for—for sticking up for Graves.  At MACUSA's hearings, I mean.  In all of the courts.  It—means a lot to him."  

Tina smiles a little.  "Mr. Graves has been looking out for me since I was eleven," she says.  "I've been happy to help.  Though I don't know if _me_ sticking up for him has done him any favors.  I'm not very well-liked anywhere outside of your house."  

"We're something of a court of misfits," Credence says, repeating what he's heard Graves say before.  

He catches sight of Newt's red hair across the crowd and misses the look Tina gives him, a startled, troubled thing, and waves.   

Newt is skirting groups of people like he's trying not to draw the attention of the Nundu in his case.  At his side is a very tall, very thin man with twinkling blue eyes and long reddish hair.  Half-moon glasses are perched on the tip of his crooked nose and he's wearing shockingly purple dress robes, his beard tucked into his belt.   

He's maybe ten years older than Graves, crow's feet gathered at the corners of his eyes, and magic clings to him like a cloak, like a crown.   

For a second, the wild magic of the Winter Solstice shivers, blurs, and Credence sees sunshine, feels a warm wind, smells things green and growing and salty and burning.   

Newt draws up to them, bobs a polite, courtly bow at Tina, and smiles.   

The magic settles, and Credence blinks.  The tall man smiles at him, warm, kind.   

"Credence, Tina," Newt says, cheerfully.  "May I introduce you to Professor Albus Dumbledore?" 

**Author's Note:**

> [i'm on tumblr now!](http://picqueries.tumblr.com)


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